


Last Plane To Clarksville

by Cosmic_Grooves



Category: The Monkees (TV)
Genre: "He's gone!", Gen, Not Slash, don't worry they all make up and are even better buddies bc of it, micky is kinda mean to peter ngl, there's bubbles, yes the title is a pun
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-12-02
Updated: 2021-01-06
Packaged: 2021-03-10 01:07:31
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 3,481
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27835768
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Cosmic_Grooves/pseuds/Cosmic_Grooves
Summary: Peter is many things. A talented instrumentalist. A true hippie. A Monkee. But he also happens to be unavoidably clumsy.One evening in the Pad, Peter messes up a little too much. This course of events leads to Mike, Davy and Micky almost loosing Peter, and the three Monkees are quickly forced to revaluate their treatment of Peter...Alternatively;Here's a medium length Peter angst fic with a happy ending :)
Comments: 5
Kudos: 2





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I SWEAR I EDITED THIS BUT I JUST REALLY SUCK AT SPELLING.
> 
> Anyway...
> 
> Please enjoy this humble ol' Monkees fic !
> 
> Stay safe and happy, y'all :)

"I guess we had better clean up, fellas," stated Micky as he started prancing around the table to gather the dishes.  
The other three nodded in agreement.  
"I will start the dishwater," announced Davy.  
“I second that motion Shotgun,” Mike agreed.  
"I'll help too!" piped up Peter.  
In the innocent’s lad’s enthusiasm, he stood bumping the table. Cutlery was sent crashing to the floor, making a comically loud CLANG!  
Mike winced.  
Davy gasped.  
Micky groaned.  
“I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry!” cried Peters panicked voice.  
The blond bassists’ cheeks flushed scarlet with mounting embarrassment, and he tripped over his own feet as he fumbled about trying to clean up the mess he had made.  
Micky rolled his eyes, and shaking his head, walked away turning his attention to the kitchen top, starting to tidy up.  
With a silent yet reassuring smile, Mike offered his hand to Peter and helped him to his feet. Peter managed to grimace in response before averting his face from the others.  
“I -… err - …” started Davy, looking with sorry eyes at Peter. He pointed after Micky and stuttered something about starting dishwater, before promptly following the curly-haired Monkee.  
Bending down to pick up the fallen cutlery, Peter was joined by Mike, who knelt down and gently put his and on Peters wrist, “Its OK Shotgun. I got this.”  
Peter silently nodded and relinquished his cutlery picking up efforts.  
When Mike had finished picking up the fallen cutlery, he and Peter traced Micky and Davys footsteps to the kitchen sink. Peters face looked downcast and his head was ever-so-slightly bowed.  
The view that greeted Mike and Peter was that of Micky and Davy hunched over a kitchen sink burgeoning with steamy water and a mound of bubbles.  
"Err, fellas-" Mike interjected, "Don’t ya think you have enough bubbles?"  
Micky leaned against the sink, sticking his hips out effeminately. He screwed up his face cartoonishly, as if thinking very hard. He put his pointer finger to his chin and let his eyes float upwards, in thought; "Well, you see Mr Nesmith......No!"  
“No?” Mike tilted his eyebrow, with a subtle smirk creeping onto his features.  
Micky stared at Mike and hissed in a dead serious voice, "There are never enough bubbles."  
Davy giggled. Peter’s melancholic features broke momentarily into a grin. Even Mike smirked a little.  
"Right!" exclaimed Micky jumping and clapping his hands together, all-business now. "Mike, you can dry-" With a twirl, he thrusted a towel into Mikes skinny torso; "Davy, you can scrub with me and Peter..." Micky’s voice trailed off. A certain awkwardness hung in the Pad.  
"Yes, Micky?" purred Peter, gazing expectantly at Micky.  
"We can't have you breaking anything else tonight, we are broke enough as it already."  
It wasn’t Micky’s crap pun that wiped the smile from Peters face, it was the implication of Micky’s words. The implication that Peter was helplessly and catastrophically clumsy and stupid and the others could barely tolerate him. At least, that how Peter interpreted it his sad state of mind.  
Davy gave Peter a quick 'I’m sorry, old chap' look before hurriedly turning to join Micky.  
Mike looked pityingly at poor Peter. He was a very helpful boy, they all knew that and loved his willingness to help others, but... Peter was also very, very clumsy and awkward. Mike understood why Micky drew a line where he did; there was a fine precipice between letting Peter help and then dealing with the larger consequences later. But as he saw Peters innocent face fall, Mike couldn't leave one of three best friends feeling so bad about himself.  
"Hey, err, Pete buddy..." Mike offered up, trying hard to make Peter feel happier with himself by including the blond, "Why don’t yew take this here sponge, and wipe down tha’ there table, yeah?"  
Peter took the sponge. As it fell into his hand, it weighed his arm down like an anvil. Peter looked sapped of energy, as he shuffled off to wipe the table.  
Mike frowned, unsure. Had he done the wrong thing? He was sure Peter felt bad because he couldn’t help and that by in including him in the cleaning up process would make him feel slightly better, but now Mike wasn’t so sure...  
••••••••••《☆》••••••••••  
Davy and Micky bickered a little as they shared the sink. Mike tried and largely failed to block out their antics. The two youngest Monkees were by far the loudest and most extroverted of the four of them.  
"Micky!" exclaimed Davy, exasperated.  
"Whaaaaat?! I did nothing!" Micky retorted with a whine.  
Mike smirked listening the twos antics. He hadn’t been paying attention to whatever they were rabbiting on about this time and didn't intend to. Mike was content keeping to his steady rhythm of drying the dishes and putting them away. He even hummed a little...  
Only at one point did Mike look up, and that was when he heard –  
"Geez louise Davy! Don’t you put any more bubbles in my hair!"  
Davy was grinning toothily, grabbing handfuls of bubbles from the sink, throwing them on Micky’s curls. Micky was cringing and flaying his hands in front of his face.  
"I thought there was never enough bubbles, Micky," said Mike simply.  
"Yeah well, this is the exception!" yelped Micky defensively.  
Micky cupped his hands and plunged them into the sink, retrieving a handful of dishwater.  
"See how you like it, English twat!" Micky teased in a mock-English accent.  
He poured the water over Davys head, taking advantage of the English boys small stature.  
"Oi!" protested Davy, completely drenched.  
It was a long, long time before they finished cleaning the dishes, and by that time the water had turned very cold and murky.  
The boys turned back to the table expecting to see their friend Peter. But there was neither hind nor tail of their friend.  
Mike, Micky, and Davy turned to one other.  
"He’s gone!” they exclaimed in unison.


	2. Chapter 2

"Where is he?" asked Davy worriedly.  
The three instantly spilt up and began searching the Pad high and low.  
Micky began randomly lifting every object, calling out "Peter! You under here? Pete? Are you behind Mr Schneider?"  
Micky whisked Mr Schneider out of the way, revealing a Peter-less space.  
Davy went out to the balcony and called, 'Peter?!?' into the night. Hearing no response, Davy soon dashed down onto the beach in a desperate search for Peter.  
Mike searched the rest of the Pad. His brow was furrowed in thought. It wasn't like Peter to leave like this... Mike worried for his friend. Before he finished asking himself why Peter had done this, he slammed headlong into Davy, who had just returned from the beach.  
"Where is Peter?" asked Davy, wide-eyed with concern  
"I dunno..." Mike replied, even more quiet and rueful than usual.  
Micky ran back to them, "Any sign of-?"  
Before he could finish the final word if his sentence ("..Peter..."), Davy and Mike replied, "No."  
"Oh…" Micky trailed off.  
"What I don't get is –” queried Davy after a few moments, " - Is why? Why has Peter gone? He never, ever done this before... What’s changed? I know he was kinda upset before, but man…"  
“’Kinda’, Davy? How about *very* upset man?” Mike interjected.  
Micky and Davy waited for Mike to continue.  
After a moment lost in brow-frowning thought, Mike bit his lip, continuing, "I just was asking me'self the me question about Pete, Davy. What’s changed? I think I know what has. One of us did something we’ve never done to Peter before."  
Mike looked at Micky.  
Micky looked back anxiously, "This wasn’t 'cause I –?"  
"- excluded Peter..." finished Davy  
The cold realisation washed over all three of them and chilled them to the core.  
"But I was joking!" stammered Micky  
Mike bit his lip again; "Were you though, Micky?"  
Micky looked offended, "Of course I was joking! Jesus Mike! I love Peter just as much as you guys do!"  
Mike hummed, unconvinced.  
“Jesus Christ Mike! Why are you against me all of a sudden?”  
“Why am I against you? Huh, I dunno, maybe ‘cause you upset our best friend and made him run away into God knows what trouble!” Mike said through gritted teeth.  
As Mike gazed directly at him with dark eyes, Micky felt his stomach weave around itself tightly.  
Micky looked frantically at Davy, in some vain attempt to rally some support to his side.  
Davy shook his head resolutely.  
“Oh, come on Davy, not you too, babe?” Micky cried.  
“Yeah mate. Sorry. I’m siding with Michael here on this one, I’m afraid. You were –“ Davy paused, searching for the right word, “I think... your teasing of poor old Peter went too far on this one…”  
“*My* teasing? It’s not like either of you stopped me! Or told me Peter was upset!” Micky argued.  
Mike snorted in exasperation, “Erg, fine, *our* teasing. Whatever. But it’s all of ours responsibility to find Peter, okay? We can argue later, play the blame game. Whatever. I don’t care. But right now, we need to focus on finding Peter. Are you with me?”  
“Mike, I’m with you man,” Davy said stepping to be beside Mike.  
Micky, on the other hand, stayed glued to the spot. Two eyes of eyes rested on the drummer.  
“Micky?” asked Davy, motioning his friend to join them.  
“Micky,” said Mike with a deep voice. It wasn’t a question. It was an order.  
Micky put up his hands in resignation, “Fine!” 

••••••••••《☆》•••••••••• 

Peter looked apprehensively around himself. He has never liked crowds of strangers. Unless it was at a concert. But this place was no concert venue. Despite the late hour, the place he found himself in was bustling with activity. We wrapped a scarf he had taken from Davys bedstand as he left tighter around him. Tilting his head up, Peters eyes were greeted by a large, glowing sign at the entrance to the main concourse: 

WELCOME TO HOLLYWOOD BURBANK AIRPORT

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hmmm, im not 100% satisfied with their characterisations here but ive decided to roll with it for now...


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It might sound terrible for me to say buuuut -  
> I haven't updated this fic since last year!! 
> 
> (But, luckily for me, "last year" was just under a week ago.) 
> 
> Happy new year everyone! I hope you all are safe and well :)

Peter had asked the lady at the Flight Desk if there was any flights he could buy tickets for, and she laughed at him when he showed the contents of his piggy bank: $1 dollar, an out-of-date supermarket coupon, 4 buttons (1 massive green one, 2 red ones and 1 birdshaped, blue one), his acoustic guitar pick and a half pents coin Davy had given him to try and explain English money to him.  
Her shrill laugh seemed to cut through Peter. He felt empty as if something that horrible laugh had carried away a part of him. Then suddenly, without any precognition, the emptiness Peter felt within himself quickly filled by panic.  
'What am I doing here? I have no money!' He thought, mind racing; 'Where can I go? I haven't got any money or food or anything! Where's Mike? Where are Davy and Micky?' Nauseatingly, Peter could feel his own stomach begin to churn with nervousness.  
"Hurry up Hippie!" groaned a passenger lined up behind peter.  
Peter had no time to think. So many thoughts, anxieties and fears flashed before his minds eye.  
"Yeah! Move it, long haired weirdo!" jeered another even further behind.  
A red flush tinted Peters dimpled cheeks. He bowed his head quickly, hiding the growing panic on his face. As he rushed to collect the pitiful contents of his piggy bank, Peter's hand shook and the piggy bank smashed onto the floor with a mighty crash.  
But Peter didn't care.  
He couldn't.  
Peters 'flight' instinct had rapidly shifted into gear and he was in overdrive.   
'I need to get away - NOW!' Peter thought, in panic and terror.   
His heart pounding, Peter ran with unsteady legs through the airport, not knowing nor caring where he ended up.  
••••••••••《☆》••••••••••  
The three remaining Monkees were mobilising quickly, banding together in desperate need to find their missing member, their beloved Peter and bring him home safely. The three of them knew that if there was trouble to be had, Peter would surely have fallen headfirst into it...  
"So, lettme get this straight, Davy," said Mike, his voice deep a d Texan, "I am going to drive 'round looking for Peter with Micky here and-?"  
"And I will stay at the Pad in case Peter comes back, and phone the police," finished Davy, his voice soft and English.  
"Gotcha," Mike concurred, completely clear of the momentous and tricky task that lay ahead of them.  
A determined expression etched onto his face, he swung around grabbing the keys to the Monkeemobile. Halfway through the threshold of the door, Mike turned to Micky.  
“Coming?” Mike asked coolly.  
Although it was technically a question, given Mike's demeanour it seemed more like an order.  
Micky scowled at Mike with what he thought was a defiant look, but in reality, Micky looked more like a pouting toddler.  
“Err…” Davy began, sensing the disagreement growing between Mike and Micky again, “Maybe, on second thoughts, Micky could stay here, and I could go with you Mike?”  
Mike shook his head, not taking his eyes off a Micky for a second, “Nup. Micky. With me. Now.”  
Mike jerked his thumb and his nose towards the Monkeemobile and Micky relented to Mike's command. Shuffling behind the Texan guiltily, Micky followed Mike to the Monkeemobile.  
With Mike and Micky gone out to look for Peter, Davy hurried to the phone and dialed 0.  
"Hullo? Operator?" he asked urgently into the receiver.  
"Yes. This is the operator."  
"Can you switch me through to the police?" Davy hurriedly requested.  
"Of course. One moment please," came the distant voice from the other end of the line.  
The voice sounded so calm, and it irritated Davy. Didn't this voice realise Peter was missing?  
Davy waited for precious, wasted seconds until he heard a man's voice on the line: "This is the county police. What is your emergency?"  
"It's my friend Peter! He has run away or gone missing, and we can't find him, and Mike and Micky are driving trying to find him -" the words fired quickly from Davy's mouth.  
"Slow down sonny," said the man (Davy assumed he was a policeman, or rather, since this was America, a cop).  
"Oh, yeah. Sorry. Right." Davy flustered, "I'm just so worried! Peter has never done anything as worrying as this before and I-"  
"Calm down sonny." The cop had a deep gruff voice that reminded Davy ever-so slightly of Mike, "Tell me your name, sonny."  
"David Jones, sir," replied Davy  
"Okay, Jones, you tell me your friend has run away?" he asked calmly.  
"Yes sir," squeaked Davy.  
"Peter, you said his name was?"  
"Yes." Davy replied, before quickly adding, "Peter Halsten Tork."  
"How old are you boys?"  
"I'm 20 and Peters 24."  
"Do you two boys live alone?"  
"No, we share a house with our bandmates Mike and Micky," said Davy, "Look, man, no disrespect or whatever but why are you asking *all* these questions? We need to be out looking for Peter! Right now!"  
The cop grunted, sounding slightly annoyed.  
Davy was taken aback by the cops disgruntledness. Didn't this man care that Peter was missing? That the sweet, blond boy could be in danger right this instant?  
"I gotta ask you all these questions, sonny, so I can make a Missing Persons Report for your buddy. That's damn why."  
The words 'Missing Persons Report' chilled Davy to the bone. It was always something tragic you heard on the radio or read in the newspaper. Those chilling stories of people going missing and never turning up again or, worse still, people going missing only to turn up dead in some river in another state. Davy shivered, hoping desperately that Peter would not have that fate awaiting him.  
"How tall is your friend? What's your address? What colour hair does he have? Is he lean or bulky?" The cop kept asking Davy questions in this manner for what felt like years. All the while, Davy wriggled and writhed next to the phone like he needed to use the loo. He was itching to do something practical to go and find Peter, and Davy began seriously wondering if talking to the police was really helping.  
The policeman had finally finished his questions, and with a yawn he said, "I'll have this Missing Persons Report for your buddy typed up and sent out in the morning -"  
Davy cut him off, his voice alarmed: "In the *morning*?! We can't wait 'til morning! We need to hurry - !"  
"No." The cops voice was condescending. "We need to follow lawful, police procedure. If I say 'morning', I mean morning. No sooner. No later, neither. Sorry, sonny, I don't make 'em rules."  
"Please, please hurry," begged Davy.  
"We will all do what we can to find your long haired weirdo friend. Hang on 'til morning, and better keep the line open, sonny, okay?"  
"Okay," replied Davy, begrudgingly.  
The cop hung up.  
Davy huffed and replaced the phone on the receiver. '...Long haired weirdo friend...' The policeman's words echoed through Davys worried brain. Is that all Peter was to the police, a long haired weirdo? The small British boy felt water in his eyes as he despaired at ever seeing his 'long haired weirdo' friend again.

••••••••••《☆》••••••••••  
The streets of California were silent except for an endless whir cricket chirps and the low rumble of the Monkeemobiles motor. Both Mike and Mickys' eyes were peeled for the head of silky, sandy blond hair that belonged to their missing friend. But neither of them could see Peter (or even his hair) anywhere for that matter.  
As Mike drove through the streets, and took his eyes off the road to check his watch. It read ten-past midnight. It was 'tomorrow' (so to speak) and they were still no closer to finding Peter.  
Micky sat quiet in shotgun. Mike suspected his friend was sulking. Secretly, Mike hoped Micky felt guilty for his actions, and Mike was content to let his friend wallow in guilt. For now at least, though mike could never wish anything so bad onto any of friends for any amount of time, if even at all. Despite this, Mike felt strongly that it just wasnt right how Micky treated Peter back there the Pad last night, what felt a thousand miles away and a thousand years ago. But the fact that Micky hadn't mutterered a word in more than an hour began worry Mike.  
"Any sign of Peter?" Mike asked aloud for about the millionth time.  
"Nup. Just another rat in a trash can on the side of the road," Micky replied sadly.  
Mike sighed. At least Micky had uttered something, even if he wasnt he usual talkative self. Maybe Micky had been left long enough to wallow in his own self pity. Only *maybe* though, thought Mike.  
"Whats up, man?" asked Mike, after what felt like an eternity sitting in silence.  
Micky shrugged and made a non-committal sort of grunt.  
"Micky, what’s up man?" Mike asked again. If Mike was worried, he concealed it well.  
Micky sighed, staring down at his own feet, as if in deep thought. After a long while Micky eventually looked up again and started scanning the road around them. Just as Mike had privately conceded that maybe Micky wasnt going to speak up and share what was on his mind, Micky spoke quietly.  
"I hate that I hurt Peter," he murmered.  
"Uh-huh," Mike nodded.  
"Like we always, tease him y’know?"  
Mike bit his lip guiltily. Micky wasn't the only one who teased Peter. Mike had said unkind things to Peter before, and he thought of it even Davy had once joked about Peter...  
"And I just.... I guess I always thought he knew it was a joke? Like, man...I guess we've taken it a step too far, y’know? Or like - *I've* taken it a step too far, y'konw?"  
"Yeah, man, I know," sighed Mike.  
Although Mike had been mad at Micky before, he no longer harboured any real negativity towards his friend. They both knew they'd messed up one way or another, and being angry at each other wouldn't fix their current problem.  
"After this when we find him - if we find him - I dunno how to apologise. He's clumsy, hes awkaward, he's clingy - 'specially to you Mike - kinda needy, but he’s Peter! Our Peter! And the group – Hell! Our lives even! - just wouldn’t be the same without him."  
Mike knew intimately that micky was holding back tears: he could tell by the way Mickys voice wobbled and how he (somehow) managed to speak even faster than usual, as if it was a race between finishing his words and letting his tears fall. Mike himself felt a clump begin clog the back of his throat.  
Mike chewed back his own emotuons and said firmly, "We will fix this mess Micky, I promise. We will find Peter and when we do...you, me 'n' Davy'll tell Peter then and there just how much he means to us." 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You can probably tell I have no idea...  
> a) how airports work  
> b) how the police work  
> c) how Americanisms in general work
> 
> ALSO!
> 
> WHY doesn't Davy just dial 911 you (probably don't) wonder??
> 
> Okay, so I tried to do historical research... Turns out 911 wasn't used in the USA until 1968 in Alabama as an emergency number. Now I imagine this fic being set in 1966 in California (like the first series of the TV show). Apparently, before 911 was set as the emergency number, Americans (or, in this fics case, Manchester's very own David Jones) just dialed 0 and asked for the operator to switch them through??? So that's why Davy doesn't just dial 911. 
> 
> The more you learn, eh?


End file.
